hurricane
by bleuboxes
Summary: Making her steps loud and forced, she creeps out from behind the tree and towards the voice. She can make out the outline of his figure from where she stands; he's tall, at least six feet, and muscular. He points the shotgun at her while she steps forward in the least intimidating way she possible can. She tries to make herself seem smaller than she actually is, and it's working.
1. Chapter 1

I'm a wanderess  
I'm a one night stand  
Don't belong to no city  
Don't belong to no man  
I'm the violence in the pouring rain  
I'm a hurricane

- _Hurricane_ , Halsey

* * *

She doesn't remember how she got here.

She remembers taking Harry's place as the Master of Death after he ever so wonderfully chucked the wand off the edge of the cliff after the final battle. She remembers that life and all its pain and joy. And she remembers as she lay dying Death coming to visit her and having a nice little chat with her. She was ready to go see the world beyond the veil.

But somehow in the mix of all that had transpired between her and Death, she somehow ended up back in the year 2003 in her twenty-three year old body in America, of all places.

She had a hunch that it had something to do with her being the Master of Death, but she wasn't willing to bet on it (mostly because she really didn't want it to be so).

Whoever had brought her here had been considerate at least; they left her with a backpack which, after she opened it and looked through it, contained a nice amount of American currency, some wizarding currency, her wand, a change of clothes, a calendar (hence how she knew the year), a flip phone, a refillable water bottle, and two granola bars. She placed an extension charm on it so that is she happened to acquire more things along the way she would have room for everything.

She checks out her surroundings; the years she had spent in the War had proven to her it was best to know the environment that you were in, especially if it's foreign. She was on the side of an unkempt country road. It was dusk and the flecks of sunlight were still up high enough to peak over the tips of the seemingly never-ending forest of evergreens. The sky is a lilac color and the clouds are a cottony white. If she wasn't so preoccupied on finding a place to stay, she would have given the view the recognition it deserved.

She decides that waking the road south is her best bet, hoping that if she doesn't make it to the nearest town in at least an hour, she'll be able to hitch-hike with some stranger that will hopefully be driving on the abandoned road. It's mostly up-hill and it's getting darker by the second. Her legs are burning from not walking this much in ages, even though her body is once again in peak physical condition. It's exhausting, and she's tired and lonely and awfully confused.

It's almost completely dark out when she decides it's probably best if she stops walking for the night; it's not going to do her any good if she continues in the heavy darkness and gets hit by an oncoming car (of any decide to venture this way, that is.) She's not sure what sort of wild life resides in this area of the world, so she finds a nice tree to sit up against a tree that is off the road enough where she won't be disturbed, but close enough that the passerby will see her.

She quickly charms the area so that any carnivorous animals won't come and bother her during the night and attempts to sleep. She doubts that she'll be able to because her brain is moving a million miles a minute trying to figure out why she's here in the first place.

She wants to go back to being a one hundred ten year old witch who had watched her children and grandchildren grow up to be fine young people. She doesn't want to be here; she wants to understand why she's here. She does know for certain that this isn't the universe that she was originally from; if two different Hermione Grangers existed at the same time there would be a terrible influx of her power, resulting in a very untimely paradox that would have probably destroyed the world. She just hopes to whatever is out there that this reality isn't as god awful as the one she was born into (although she has another premonition that this one is about as nice and cuddly as her previous one.)

She closes her eyes and thinks about Rose and Scorpio's daughter and her girlfriend, hoping that they're doing well without her (Hermione had always been close with her granddaughter, maybe because she saw herself a little bit in the girl.) She wonders how Hugo and his wife are holding up, although she's sure he's alright, he's always been strong when it came to things like losing someone (she wasn't sure how he did it; she was a stitch away from falling apart when she lost her parents, even if she had convinced herself that she was fine.) She just desperately wants to return back to her home.

She finds herself drifting off into a melancholy sleep. She's woken up rather abruptly by a loud wolfish howl. She isn't too worried; she's handled far worse than wild animals, although, she is a bit on edge; it could be a werewolf. Besides, she isn't accustomed to this world's indigenous wildlife. She glances up at the sky and sees the beautiful full moon which is centered in the swirly dark sky. (She's a little bummed about being woken up, but she'll take sleep when she can get it.)

The howling continues and it's growing louder. She begins to get what little she has together and gets up quickly, quietly tossing her backpack onto her shoulders. She draws her wand, ready for the animal to emerge from dark forest.

It comes out from the cover of the evergreens when she notices that the thing isn't an animal at all; it's a werewolf, and she decides it's as good time as ever to freak out. She knows that the American werewolves are a whole other breed entirely from the English ones. With that added to the alternate universe plot of it all, she realizes with a slight twinge of terror that she has no idea how to defend herself against this thing.

She starts running as fast as she can through the woods, throwing minor jinxes back at the creature that's following her in hot pursuit. She knows it's only a matter of time until her legs give out from under her and the werewolf catches up to her. It's much faster than her and much better equipped for running through this type of terrain.

She wishes she had decided to run towards the road instead of into the woods. Sure, there were many more hindrances and traps for the werewolf (and herself) to get tripped up in, but when the thing manages to catch her and gut her alive, there isn't going to be anyone to find her corpse until she's half rotted (which isn't a pleasant thought; she isn't sure why she's thinking about this now.)

She manages to get enough space behind her and the thing so that it's sniffing the air by a nearby tree on its hind legs, surely its looking for her. Her back is pressed against the widest trunk she could find while running as fast as she could through a dark forest. Her breathing is still heavy, but she's forcing it to be quiet, trying to buy herself as much time as she possibly can. Her wand is tightly pressed to the right side of her body, grasped in an unperishable grip.

She hasn't felt this alive in a very long time.

It feels almost refreshing (in a scare-the-hell-out-of-her kind of way) and she almost lets out a giggle. But, that's when the creature howls again and unfortunately gets a response. Now she's worried; this is bad. Why was it that all the terrible things had to chase her?

She didn't give herself time to respond. She started sprinting again; her heavy breaths filled the cold dark night with something other than silence. At least three minutes go by without the now two creatures being directly behind her. She can't out run them; it's not possible. She doesn't want to risk apparating in this unknown place and she isn't sure if she really wants to kill them. (Sue her; she has a bit of decency. It's not like these things asked to become monsters.)

She's cornered with her back up against another pine tree, a werewolf to her left and right. With any sudden movements, they'll both lung at her and rip out her throat. She slowly raises her wand, slightly trembling. She hasn't been this stressed since the War, and that was at least ninety-three years ago (putting it in that perspective makes her feel rather old and silly). And even though she can proudly say she liked settling down with Ron and raising their children together, she missed the euphoric feeling of terror and adrenaline.

As she's about to warn them to get out while they can, she's cut off by the loud noise of gunfire. She lets out a scream and watches as the werewolf to the left of her falls to the ground with an ungraceful thud. She pockets her wand, not wanting to draw unnecessary attention to herself. She takes off running while the other werewolf's attention is drawn to the person who fired the gun. It's only a matter of minutes before she hears the next gunshot and the sound of dead weight dropping to the ground with a quiet whimper.

She hears a man call out for her; his voice is handsome and resounding, tempting her to emerge from her hiding spot behind a far off tree. She doesn't want to see him, in fear of him shooting her too (Something was telling her that he might not have a fondness for magical creatures.) But eventually, she gives in. only because she'd probably get lost in these woods forever and she wasn't to get into town to pick up some more food.

Making her steps loud and force, she creeps out from behind the tree and towards the voice. She can make out the outline of his figure from where she stands; he's tall, at least six feet, and muscular. He points the shotgun at her while she steps forward in the least intimidating way she possible can. She tries to make herself seem smaller than she actually is, and it seems to be working.

As she gets closer to him, and he's able to see her, he lowers his gun; it's not put away, but it's not directly pointed at her, which makes her feel a little better. He's a few feet in front of her and she can see that this man is splattered with blood, but he looks surprisingly gorgeous. He's almost what you would expect to see from some guy trying to save a damsel in distress. (Jokes on him; she's sure as hell not a damsel, and usually she can save herself from these things.)

"You alright, sweetheart?" he asks. She wants to grimace, but she goes with it.

"I'm fine, thank you." She huffs, "Please tell me that wasn't a werewolf."

"I'm a sinner, but I ain't a liar."

"Lovely." She sighs. He lets out a forced laugh; it's like he's went through this sort of thing many times before. "And why do I get the feeling seeing these things is seemingly normal for you?'

"I don't know, sweetheart. They show up and I kill 'em; Someone's gotta do it." He runs his hand though his blood splattered hair (which she finds to be mildly attractive) and gives a bitter-sweet smile, "I really wish this wasn't normal for me."

"At least it's more straightforward than some other career options, like criminal law - props to those guys." The color drains from his face, and she's scared that she's messed something up; this man, whoever he is, is her only way to town, and she doesn't want to insult him too much. She's about to apologize when he responds.

"Yeah, I guess you're right; what are you doing in the middle of the woods by yourself?"

"Hitch-hiking. I was trying to sleep on the side of the road when these buggers snuck up on me."

"Yikes. You need a ride to town?"

"Yes, actually, that would be great. Thank you." She smiles, he shrugs like it's no big deal.

"No problem. Hey, you care to give me a hand with these bodies?"

"Least I could do. I'm Hermione, by the way." She extends her hand. He takes it and shakes.

"Dean."

"Well, Dean-o," she grins, "lets dispose of some bodies."

xXx

She helps him drag them together so he can salt them and burn them (which would have been twenty times simpler if she used her wand, but she was also completely sure he would have shot her if she used her magic). They stand around the flames in silence, the smell of burning flesh unpleasant against the warmth of the flames. She can feel him watching her carefully, surely inspecting how calmly she was handling this situation.

No sane woman (or man, for that matter) should be as relaxed around burning flesh (of werewolves, nonetheless) as she is.

They stand in silence while the flames die out. He collects his things, ready to carry them back to his car. Every so often, they would glance at each other. There was something about him that she could feel was pivotal to this universe; whoever the hell this Dean fellow was, she knew for certain that he was important. (He keeps thinking that there's something off about her, he just couldn't figure out what it was.)

The ashes are smoldering, leaving them in darkness as he leads her back to his car, a black beauty from the sixties. It's sleek, almost elegant. It's nothing like the muscle cars that most men fancy; she's not curvy, she's angular and rustic and she swears it's like the cars alive. The hood gleams in the moonlight, and she's almost scared to touch the thing.

She's never been intimidated by a hunk of metal before (although, this is a different universe, and she supposes that there is a first for everything.)

She stands there staring at the passenger door for a good three minutes before he smirks at her, it's teasing, but somewhat pleased – goodness, men and their cars.

"You gonna stare at Baby all night or what?"

"Sorry, it's just that she's very beautiful." She responds, opening the door and plopping herself into the seat. He follows her lead, sitting down and turning the engine over. The car lets out a rumble that almost sounds like a purr.

She lets the noise of the engine and the wind against the frame of the car lull her to sleep. He slams the breaks soon after, waking her up with a forceful jerk. He apologizes profusely, which surprises her a little; he doesn't seem like the type to be sorry for these types of things.

She doesn't try to sleep again, the night sky is pretty and she finds herself transfixed with it. She hasn't seen the sky like this since she and Ron were married all those years ago. The thought makes her sad, and she once again wishes she was back home, lying on her deathbed waiting to go beyond the veil.

Before she can ask him to turn the excessively loud music down, they arrive in town. He pulls into a motel in the small town of Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. It doesn't look like anything special, and she's sure the rooms reek of sex and grime; but, it's nothing a little magic can't take care of.

She thanks him for the ride, hurrying to get out of his hair. Before she can leave, he gives her his card, telling her to call if anything weird (like werewolves) happen to show up again. She can tell he's hoping that she'll call him just because, and she tries hard to not let out a giggle of amusement. She hasn't dealt with something like this since her fourth year at Hogwarts. (She finds it adorable. Besides, who knows? Maybe she might need the company one night.

"See you around?" he asks, she can hear the hopefulness in his voice.

"I sure as hell hope not." She responds, earning a laugh from him, "Thank you."

He looks at her, as if he's trying for one last time to figure her out. He gives up moments later, a wide grin sweeping across his face.

"Well, it was nice meeting ya, Hermione."

"Likewise, Dean." She smiles.

The conversation is abruptly ended when a man barges out of a motel room and comes barreling towards them. She can tell this man isn't good news, and decides it's time for her to go. She says a quick goodbye and practically sprints to the lobby to get herself a room.

She can hear the older man yelling, something about how he shouldn't have shot the monsters. He scolds Dean more about silly things. Dean replies with a uniform 'sorry sir' every time. The maternal side of her is furious at this man, who she's assuming is his father. The maternal side of her wants to hex his father for being so awful and ridiculous.

But she can't do that. She needs to rest; she needs to get away from him and his father. They're dangerous, and despite the kindness that he showed her early, she knows that if he finds out that she's actually an one hundred-ten year old witch from an alternate universe, he's going to be a little trigger happy.

And it's really a shame; she wouldn't mind getting to know Dean. He could be a helpful friend (or a handsome acquaintance… she's not blind; he's something anyone would look twice at.)

She exits the lobby when the yelling stops and she hears the car door slam. She makes her way over to room twelve, and unlocks the door when she gets there. The room is decorated with stereotypical American décor. It doesn't smell too bad, but the mattress looks as clean as a muddy road.

With a quick wave of her wand and a whisper of _scourgify_ , the place is spotless and she's content enough to try to sleep.

xXx

She has enough money to 'rent' a car the next day. It's not nearly as nice as Dean's, but it will have to do. Her backpack rides shotgun as she drives along the open road, not really sure where she's going.

But that matters not; what's its important is the route she takes. And as only normal to the witch, she takes the long one, because, let's face it, she's a slut for all things challenging and complicated and impossibly irritating.

Although, she doesn't run into irritating for another three years, which is a story for another time.

* * *

 **I know, this isn't tempest in a teacup or patron saint of liars and fakes or twin skeletons. It's a new! Harry Potter / Supernatural xover (mostly because I have a terrible case of writers block and have literally zero time between studying for bio and stuff to think/write.)**

 **I've been trying to write this for a good two weeks; it would have been up last weekend, but I was in Pittsburgh to see a football game and between that and my studies, I just handt the time to finish it.**

 **I was really inspired by Halsey's song, Hurricane, which just seems very Hermione to me and the idea from another fanfiction, Mother Hunter (by Mario hood, who is like my favorite xover author, like seriously, check them out) in which Hermione is the mistress of death. In no way no way do I plan to copy that story line.**

 **I don't know when I'll have the time/motivation to update this or any of my other fics, I'm sorry friends.**

 **also this, like all of my other fics, s unbeta-d so all mistakes are mine.**

 **I thank you for your patience (And your support)**

 **So please, read, review, follow, favorite.**

 **bleuboxes**


	2. Chapter 2

She's a rebel  
She's a saint  
She's salt of the earth  
And she's dangerous  
She's a rebel  
Vigilante  
Missing link on the brink  
Of destruction

 _She's a Rebel,_ Green Day

* * *

She's aware that it's a Monday morning when she wakes up in an unknown bed with a foreign arm lazily draped over her body. The man whose name she quite can't remember lies naked beside her and is steel in a deep sleep. She decides it's as good a time as ever to get up and leave him (and this dingy motel room). She gathers all her clothes which had been carelessly strewn across the motel room's floor during the previous night and dresses herself quickly and quietly (the silencing charm helps quite a bit with that part), not wanting him to wake up before she leaves; if he wakes up, then this (whatever you want to call it) will mean something, and the second it becomes something, it can be manipulated. She's dealt with enough manipulation for a life time.

She exits the room just before sunrise and she makes her way over to her car, an evergreen 1997 Volkswagen Jetta; it's not the prettiest thing she's ever seen, but it's the closest thing she has to a home. She supposes that's got to be enough to count for something.

The engine turns over with a noiseless rumble, and she speeds out of the Days Inn parking lot with a little smirk on her face (she's well aware that she's a heart breaker, and she's a little self-satisfied that at the age of one hundred and twelve, she's still able to twist and touch the hearts, among other things, of men)

She's not quite sure where she wants to go next. She knows for damn sure she's done with jumping from small town to small town and charming the sexist redneck men (that look at her in a degrading manner) who reside in such areas. She's sure as hell not done hexing them, though; that's just too much fun of a pastime to give up.

She's about an hour out of Medford, Oregon, when she decides that California seems like a great place to visit; she hasn't been involved in the hustle and bustle of crowded city life in a very long while. The peace and quiet (which is often confused with monotony) of these small rural areas has really been giving her time to think about what she's been doing with her life in this new universe, and if she has one more conversation with herself about how she should give up on the 'monster hunting' business, as the American's like to put it, _shits gonna hit the fan._ (On a side note, she also needs to break her habit of pretending that these male 'acquaintances' of hers are Ron.)

She turns up the volume on her radio so that her Weird Sisters tape, which she bought (along with some herbs) a while ago in a little wizarding community right outside Topeka, Kansas, is blaring as loud as she can handle as she cruises down the seemingly never ending stretch of highway on her way to her not- totally permanent destination.

xXx

She makes better time on her journey than she was expecting and it's around noon when she arrives in Stanford, California. Her music, still playing loudly, seems to be bothering the college kids on the sidewalks. Others seem to be having a grand old time poking fun at her, but she doesn't mind; she was once a stingy twenty-something (although she probably had much better reasons to be a sour-pus than these college students ever could fathom, but she doesn't know their life stories). She finds a fairly busy café to eat lunch in, then meanders over to the library because parking was an absolute nightmare to find, and she's not moving her car until the meter runs out (which isn't until about 5:30, because the café was obnoxiously slow, but delicious. Besides, she just put the remainder of her spare change in the meter). She reads some interesting texts on myths and legends (surprisingly, she finds one in the original Latin) before she leaves and goes back to her car.

She finds a reasonably priced motel, where she'll be staying for the night, before driving to the McDonald's down the street for dinner. She returns to the room and watches some of the worst television she's ever seen, when she decides to hit some of the student bars and broaden her American experience.

With the use of her favorite hair unfrizzing charm, she's able to leave the motel room in twenty minutes after eight. She drives around the strip for a while before finally settling on a place that looked like it has a decent sized crowd (there's no better place to hide than in plain sight, not that she's hiding from anything or anyone at the moment). It's when she enters that she realizes that she's sticking out like a store thumb. It's Halloween Weekend; of course all the bars are going to be filled with girls in skimpy nurse costumes and everything in between. She feels entirely out of place in her overly large sweater and her skinny jeans. (She supposes she could always pull out her wand and claim she's a 'wizard' or something; but god only knows that's a disaster waiting to happen.)

So, she decides to pose as one of those cynical young adults that believes that Halloween is only for the children as she makes her way to the bar all by her lonesome.

She can feel all the eyes upon her as she sits in one of the few empty stools. She wishes all these people weren't staring at her; in part, it's her own fault for forgetting that Halloween was Thursday, but just because she wasn't in costume didn't give them the right to eye her up like some sort of candy. Sure, she was all too aware that she had this strange essence of beauty upon her (as Ronald liked to remind her), but she wasn't attuned to the attention, even after being in America for two years. Even though she wasn't used to being on the receiving end of all this attention, she ate it up. None of the men fighting for a chance to take her home tonight really interested her, though she did let one man (She believed he claimed to be Nathan Something on the speech and debate team or whatever the hell it was called) buy her a drink; he wasn't too thrilled when she turned down his advances afterwards.

If she's being perfectly honest, she isn't even listening to him; she's all too focused on the lone man sitting sadly at the opposite end of the bar who looks as if he's a sad puppy with his eyes drowning in the bottom of his amber tumbler (plus, his conversation skills were rather lacking).

She can tell by some weird sixth sense that he's dealt with death, but this death – the most recent one – is fresh and has hit him harder than usual. Despite his disheveled appearance, she can tell that he is dangerous and some part of her brain is telling her to get the hell out of here before something blows up in her face (she's never been one to listen to common sense; she blames Harry and Ron entirely for the possession of that trait and unfortunately passing it along to their children)

She plops herself on the barstool next to him that has recently been abandoned by its previous inhabitant and offers him a small smile, completely aware of the men glaring at the back of her head. Their glowering eyes convince her that she's done the right thing by coming over to speak with him, which in turn makes her smile grow even more. Flagging down the bartender, she buys him a drink and hopes to whatever deity is out there that he doesn't take her gesture the wrong way.

It's now when he turns to face her that she sees how broken this man really is. The aura of loss spout around him like clouds do the eye of a hurricane. It's like she's staring at a mirror image of herself after Ron's death all those years back. She swears to all that she has that the feeling of grief and pain radiating off this man like a space heater is something she's gone through before, and for the life of herself, she wouldn't wish this fate upon anyone.

"I'm sorry," he begins after his drink arrives and the bartender motions towards her when he gives him questioning glance as to where the drink came from, "I'm sure you're nice and all, but it's just not a good time."

"No, no, no –"she quips quickly, "It's just that you looked awful lonely and sad; sort of like you needed a friend or company or something."

"Well, thanks… I guess." He utters as he stares once again into the bottom of his glass. He's making no effort to initiate conversation as he continues to nurse his whiskey. She feels as if he's trying to get her to run away from him. It's almost as if he's weary of speaking because of fear of slipping up (honestly, there's very little that would surprise her anymore. Especially since she figured out that there were muggles that hunted monsters and demons and all the like in this universe.)

Their silence continues comfortably, as the bar draws in even more of a crowd. He finally speaks up as she's downing her third shot of the night.

"Jess… My girlfriend just died." He mumbles so quietly that she almost misses it. Her heart shatters for this man; she knows the pain of losing someone all too well. The loss of someone dear never really goes away (She still misses Ronald, that stupid ass, every day for the last twenty years for god's sake.)

"I'm sorry." She sighs, knowing how insensitive it sounds, but there is really nothing else to say in a situation like this.

"Yeah," he huffs, letting out a shaky breath and she's scared that he's just going to completely break down as he grips his glass so tight his knuckles turn white, "me too. It's just… it just sucks, ya know? I was gonna ask her to marry me – I was savin' up for the ring and everything. Then my brother shows up, sayin' my dad's gone missing or something; my life gets flipped upside down overnight; she's dead when I get back and it's my fucking fault. I should've done _something_ about it." He's still wistful (of that she can tell without this new born sense thing, which she's almost positive has to do with her being the Master of Death), but with that she can discern the rage coming off him in waves, and that terrifies her.

While she can tell there is something so pure and good with in this man's soul, she can also feel an unbelievable dark presence. If she didn't know better, she'd say it's just the grief talking (she does know better; she's the brightest witch of her age for fuck's sake), but she's absolutely sure that there's something more going on than he's telling her.

"It hurts," she says, trying her best to relate her own experiences with his, "I lost my husband, Ron," she smiles, "a few years ago. We had married young – fresh out of school – and when he died, it just felt like… like my whole world had just come to a halt."

"Does it ever go away?" he questions as if he already knows the answer.

"The pain? No, it's here," She points at her heart, "and it hurts. But that's how you know it was real. So you take that pain and anger and you push it down and keep living because there's nowhere to go but forward. And who knows, maybe you'll meet someone else that makes you just as happy and loved as they did."

"So a replacement?" he implies.

"Do you honestly think anyone could ever replace her?" she challenges, baffled.

"No." he admits after a few seconds of a poignant pause, "for what it's worth, I'm sorry about your husband."

"Thanks." She downs the last shot in front of her.

"Sam," He blurts, "I'm Sam."

"Hermione." She extends her hand, and he shakes it. His hands are big and calloused (and not much unlike the hands on Dean, the hunter that saved her from the werewolves she had first encountered in this universe) but also gentle. She's learned over her many years that it's easy to figure out a lot about a person by their hands, so it's the handshake that gets her to trust this Sam fellow.

"I take it you're not from around here." He starts, and her smile gleams as she prepares a way to distract him from the freshness of his loss in the most interesting (and inaccurate) way possible.

xXx

It's around three in the morning and she's still taking to Sam; as it turns out he's studying pre-law (which she seems to think is a perfect career for him) and he also happens to rather enjoy reading (after which they promptly nerded out over Charles Dickens, because who doesn't adore the inventor of the paperback book). At one point during their conversation, she even had him smiling.

She's just about to leave when he asks for her number. The men who had been staring at her for the majority of the night had lost interest a while back (she may have placed simple hexes on them as they left the bar one-by-one with a 'nurse' in hand), so she's not too worried one of them is going to follow her out and beat her up in an ally for declining them (not that she would let them, but it is a reasonable fear). He hands her his phone and she punches her mobile number in quickly. He responds with a quick thank you as she returns his phone to him, and hugs her in return. (He's a very nice hugger; he sort of hugs like her daughter, and that familiarity is nice, needed even.) She hasn't been touched in such an intimate way in a long time (despite all the sex she's been having recently; this is something completely different, and casual sex is the least intimate things she can possibly think of), and Hermione knows that she should at least make an effort keep in touch with him.

"If you even need anything, just give me a buzz." She suggests, "I'll probably be either driving or reading, neither of which are as important as a friend."

"I can't thank you again."

"Then don't." she laughs. He's still holding onto her, and however nice his hugs are, he's griping her rather tight and it's starting to hurt, "Sam."

"Oh, yeah," he lets go of her tiny body, rubbing the back of his head in embarrassment, "Sorry."

"You're fine. I've got to go; see you around!" she turns around before he can answer. Not looking where she's walking she tries to make her way to the door, but runs into a wall of muscle mass.

"Watch where you're going, sweetheart." The voice sounds familiar, like a much loved melody that you can't quite put your finger on. She looks up at the source.

"You've got to be fucking _kidding_ me." She groans. Of course it's Dean. That's the last thing she needs – a hunter in the area. If he's here that means something else must be also and the last thing she needs him to know is that she's taken up his line of business of hunting (and cursing and hexing and jinxing) things.

"Hermione?" he questions, testing out the name.

"Unfortunately." He rolls his eyes.

"Fancy seeing you here." He smiles. He looks pretty in the dimly lit room and she's sure the excess alcohol in her system is making her see things she shouldn't be. He looks like someone she'd take home, but she knows better than to mess with him; he's not someone to get involved with even if it is just for the night (although she's been hearing he has quite the reputation with in the hunting community)

"Likewise." She retorts, cautiously, "What brings you here?"

"I'm here to pick up my brother, Sammy. He just lost his girlfriend and I just wanted to make sure he didn't drink himself into a coma."

"Jesus Christ." She almost screams.

"What the fuck's wrong with you?" he inquires with a smirk, although she would like to believe he was a little bit concerned for her welfare.

"Is sad, lonely, distraught, Sam your brother?"

"You've met him?" His face lights up in surprise. She mumbles something under her breath that's so quiet he can't catch it, so he doesn't bother worrying about it.

"So what killed Jess?" She questions, cutting straight to the chase.

"A demon…," he whispers, rolling his eyes despite being very serious," Are we seriously having this conversation at three in the morning?"

"Yes!" she hisses, not sure of what is coming out of her mouth at this point, "This is bad; this is very terribly bad."

"No shit, babe."

"Can you not." She growls, but her eyes light up in recognition as that damned sense thing comes back and she remembers the conversation she and Death shared those two years ago and she looks up at the ceiling, "Why is that I always get picked to the hopeless causes?"

"What was that?"

"Just shut up and get your brother. Here's where I'm staying. Be there by four; we're leaving at five. If I'm not mistaken and if I was given the correct information, you have a case."

She practically sprints out the bar so that she can get to her Jetta fast enough. She unlocks the car with an angry whisper of _Alohomora_ and almost takes the car door off when she opens the door. The car starts and she speeds off into the night making it to her motel room in five minutes.

Not ten minutes after she's finished putting everything back in order, Sam and Dean come bursting in with shotguns pointing at her. In her state of shock, she points her wand at them. (Looking back on it, this was one of her many mistakes and it made gaining their trust much harder than it should have.)

"Put the stick _down_!" they both shout; she lowers her wand. She's no idiot and is quite aware that Dean won't hesitate to shoot her if she does or says something wrong, "Now you wanna explain what the hell is going on around here? Or do you wanna get two nice little holes right through your head."

And so she begins with her signature _bloody Americans._ (They didn't take lightly to her being a witch, as Dean shot her in her thy, but somehow, by the grace of god, as it seems, they didn't kill her.)

xXx

It's five in the morning as she's strapped into the back seat of Dean's Impala ( the one car that's ruined her taste in mechanics forever) and they're on their way to the last coordinates written down in their fathers journal.

It's honestly scary how accurate Death can be; the story he had told her by her bedside, which she had forgotten for a little more than two years, had been spot on.

And so her impossible task (of making sure the Winchester's don't die any more than they need to) begins just as it was told.

* * *

 **Here's chapter two. I'm sorry if Hermione seems a little OoC (actually I'm not) it's just how I wanted this to story to go.**

 **I hope you liked it! And please, it doesn't take too much time, drop in and leave a lil review or favorite or follow. Every little bit helps motivate me to sit my but down and write more.**

 **Merry Christmas to all those who celebrate it!**

 **(And a happy belated Hanukkah to y'all!)**

 **Thanks again,**

 **bleuboxes**


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